Sparkles

Hugh hung up, snapping his mobile shut. Another investor who wouldn’t sell to him. Nick Chambers-Darling was a small fish by objective standards—a successful stockbroker on the private client side, he had ten thousand shares in his personal portfolio. But Montfort’s window was closing. He had to chase everything in the pond, even the minnows. Chambers-Darling was sitting tight. Said he liked what Sophie was doing.

His conversation with Stockton had aggravated him. That fat slob was obnoxious; it sat ill with Hugh that he worked for him. But there was some point to Pete’s gibbering rage. Hugh had not anticipated Sophie’s success. He’d underestimated her.

Well, she was beautiful, elegant, impressive. He had not thought she could be much of a businesswoman.

The sun beat down on the Champs-Elysées, and Montfort was hot. He passed a hand across his forehead in frustration. Unable to concentrate in his suite, he’d thought a walk would clear his head. So far, it wasn’t working.

He decided to go to the Massot showroom. See how sales were holding up. Was it a blip? A temporary effect? Perhaps, if the store was empty now that the party fuss had died down, he could call back—convince some of those reluctant sellers that the honeymoon had been brief. This time, though, he wouldn’t buy so much as a cuff link. They needed no further publicity from him.

A cab rolled past and he grabbed it. Normally Montfort would have walked, but it was just too hot; he didn’t want to start sweating through his shirt.

His mind rolled over names and figures as they pulled up. Unthinkingly, he pulled out ten euros and pressed it into the driver’s hand, not waiting for the change. There was House Massot, as freshly beautiful and luxurious as it had been when he bought the aigrette. But unlike that occasion, the shop was packed.

Hugh’s heart sank. He shut the door of the cab and crossed the street. Now that he was here, he might as well look.

The doorman saluted smartly and wished him bon matin. Montfort entered the room with some difficulty; the place was seething. He glanced at the registers; they were busy, too; customers were buying, not just browsing.

She was wearing an attractive silk suit, but her eyes were red; she looked pale, drawn, still utterly beautiful. From a business point of view, this was an awkward meeting; she had caught him in her shop. But Hugh didn’t care. He was instantly and fiercely glad.

His eyes ran up and down, across her body, her slim curves perfectly visible through the well-cut suit. Even like this, she was attractive. He wanted her, but when he saw the strain in her eyes, he wanted to protect her, to hug her.

But they were opponents. It was not his place. He contented himself with a handshake; the feel of her thumb, the little swell of flesh next to her palm, he found electrifying. The smallest things about her engaged him.

“Mrs. Massot. Good to see you again,” he said, truthfully, and smiled warmly at her. “I must congratulate you on the number of people here.”

“Tired? No. Upset, perhaps.” She smiled wanly. “I suppose I must thank you for warning me about Judy Dean. I discovered the truth. . . . Fired her.”

“I’m pleased to hear that.” Montfort was concerned. “It must have been very difficult for you.”

“I felt such a fool.” She bit down on her lip; how he wanted to gather her into his arms and kiss the life out of that mouth. Here and now. “I didn’t know,” she said flatly. “Had no idea . . . it’s the oldest cliché, isn’t it?”

He wondered what to say. “You weren’t at fault for believing in your marriage. Others are to blame here, not you.”

She shook her head. Hugh could see she was trying not to cry. But she smiled at him, bravely.

“I believe you,” Sophie said. Now the smile was a little warmer, and Hugh longed to be able to court her, properly. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to . . .

“Your store is doing very well,” he made himself say. “I came here hoping to see a trail off of your sales.

“I hope to see you again,” Hugh said. “After the stockholders’ meeting, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.” She smiled again, looking right into his eyes, and he felt a rush of adrenaline. He was forced to say goodbye. And walk out the door.

Hugh felt the sun hot again on his back. He had no thought of Massot, or their sales. He couldn’t think of anything but Sophie. And right now he just wanted to find a restaurant, so he could sit down in air-conditioned cool and think of her some more.

It was there when Tom woke up, alone in the comfortable sterility of his rented bed; it was there as he processed the humiliations of the night before, as he dressed, and made coffee, and called the limo service.

The behaviour of his mother—bizarre and humbling as it was—seemed to fade, a little, seemed less fresh, when he thought about the American girl.

Beautiful, and spirited. She fascinated him, sexually; he wanted to prove himself with her, as more than his age, more than just some boy.

And apparently she had a plan, as well. Something better than just voting 15 percent against Maman and hoping for the best.

He would go to see his grandmother; it was a duty visit, it had to be paid; Tom did not forget that Katherine controlled two-thirds of their stake. She had been right about Maman’s attitude, but he regretted that. Tom was not looking forward to sitting there as the old lady gloated.

The telephone rang. Tom walked over to the stand, in front of his windows, overlooking the Seine; he watched the sun glitter over the water, the boats laden with tourists ploughing through it, as he picked up the receiver.

He glanced at his watch. “I really want to see you, but I have to take a ride out to St.-Aude. I must visit my grandmother at the château. After that, if we could do lunch? I’ll pick the place this time.”

“Yes. You know the idea we were discussing last night? I’d like to explain it to you. It will concern your grandmother too, after all. When you go visit her, you can tell her all about it.”

He didn’t need much persuading. “That’s fine,” he said, trying not to sound too excited. “Come round.”

That was the first thing that registered.Tom noticed it with relief; ungallant of him, perhaps, but still. It would have been a blow for her beauty to evaporate with the harsh light of day.

He needn’t have worried. She was, on close inspection, still as firm and lithe as she had been under the moon, clad in a scarlet sheath. Today Judy wore another bold dress.

“You like them?” she touched one long fingernail to her ears. “They’re Mayberry.”

“Come in.” He showed her inside, proudly; he took pleasure as her eyes rounded at the luxury, the space, the high ceilings. “Of course, this is a rental,” he said. “Nothing to the château.”

“Only for another couple of years. After that the whole estate will be mine. The stock, too.” He felt proud as he said it. “Coffee?”

“I don’t know if you should be wearing Mayberry earrings. They’re the enemy.” Tom thought of his mother. “The enemy without, at least.”

He served her coffee at the little table for two set under the window, plenty of cream and sugar. There was nothing to eat, but that didn’t matter. She was talking, in that fast, confident way the Americans have, sketching a plan that was immediately obvious, brilliant in its simplicity.

“And Mayberry would go for this?” Tom asked. He didn’t trouble to play it cool, not now. Not with what she was saying.

“Of course. You’ll never be in such a good position to dictate terms.” Judy leaned forward, her enthusiasm showing in her posture, in the gleam in her eyes, the tense set of her shoulders. “They’ve spent money on this deal. And their reputation. If they lose, Mayberry’s own stock will fall.”

Judy nodded. “Her own success last night will strangle her.You see, it cannot be denied that from a purely commercial point of view, it was a masterstroke.”

“Yes,” Judy tried not to show her impatience. “But all those sales, the reporters present will run stories. So will others. I assure you, today there will be a run on Massot showrooms. Not just in Paris, but across France, in Rome, and London. By next week the buzz will be in New York and Tokyo. Fashion loves a story like this: the revival of haute couture, jewels considered as works of art. Sexier than a painting, and more portable.”

“And shareholders may very well reject Mayberry’s offer. Even some of their insitutional investors may pull out. A deal like this can fall apart very quickly.”

“I see.” Tom drained his coffee; he was starting to get jittery. The next one should be decaffeinated. Was it that, or was it the prospect of real power, at last?

He smiled at her. “You know it’s Tom. You don’t need to speak so respectfully to me.”

“Well, as the future chief executive of House Massot, you deserve a little respect.” She winked at him, and Tom was enchanted.

“Indeed.” Judy looked solemn. “That will satisfy your father’s honour. He always hated Montfort.”

Judy said “Of course they will want to name a few of their own people to management spots.”

“You would be.” Only nominally, but she didn’t say that. “And of course you don’t actually sell them your stock. You will keep the forty-five percent in the family. It will always give you protection; in three years you will control it all.”

Judy sighed delicately. “She loves you, I’m sure she’ll come around. You can announce the deal carefully. Go to see her—after it’s done, of course. I would advise distance from her until it’s finalized.”

“I took the view that I could no longer go on working for Sophie. Not after meeting you. What she is doing is against the wishes of your father, and my first loyalty must be to his heir.” She gazed at him soulfully. “I hope that doesn’t offend you, Tom.”

“Offend me?” He caught her hands in his; for all her years, her slim, feminine hands were dwarfed inside his; he liked the look of them in there. “Nothing you could ever do could offend me. I think you’re marvellous.”

“I think you know that I’m quite serious. I want to take you out to lunch. And then to dinner.” And then to bed, he didn’t say.

She stood up, in a single, powerful movement, pushing the Sèvres porcelain cup away from her.

Tom called ahead, from the limo, to alert the servants; one didn’t turn up at the dower house with an unannounced guest. His grandmother was a stickler for form, and he feared Judy might be kept waiting in the hallway, or worse, refused entrance altogether.

He waited on the phone until Faubert, Katherine’s ancient butler, announced that Madame had said any guest of Monsieur’s would be most welcome. Tom breathed out in relief. There would be no scenes.

Everything Tom relished about Judy—her ferocity, her spirit, her independence, even her fitness—his grandmother would disapprove of. He had no doubt about that. He hoped she would have the sense to be self-deprecating, modest, and admiring; to pay Katherine her due, and after giving homage, say very little.

“Perhaps, once we get there, I should do the talking,” he said, eventually. “Grandmother is very traditional.”

“Oh, I understand completely.” Judy turned her head away from the sun-dappled woods leading up to the estate; they would soon be pulling into the driveway of the château itself. She smiled reassuringly at Tom. “You must tell her everything; it’s a family decision. I have nothing to do with it.”

He nodded. “I know my father would agree. But since he isn’t here, you’ll have to let me be the one to thank you.”

Judy smiled politely; she squared her shoulders. Now was a moment to stand strong, she reminded herself. She would not be overawed by the sumptuousness of the dower house; in many ways, it was superior to Sophie’s château. The Chinese silk wallpaper and Sun King furniture simply illuminated the Georgian grandeur of the house, the dignity of its grey stone lines, the perfect beauty of its lawns and carved yew hedges.

And the house was nothing if not a reflection of its owner. Judy had been ushered into the presence of the magnificent Katherine Massot. The boy, Tom, was nervous; she too, but she would have died before showing it.

Katherine had looked oddly attractive yesterday night, as though, by careful artifice, she had peeled off twenty years; she had crafted something out of the ruins of her beauty. Today, that spell had been broken; Mme Massot was once again an old woman, and instead of beauty, her weapon was elegance, and steely, unassailable dignity.

She was sitting in her parlour, and did not rise to receive them. She wore a dress, peach silk with a lace trim, and a sedate string of lustrous pearls; her white hair was pinned up in a chignon with an old-fashioned lace cap atop it; her face was carefully powdered and made up.

Tom led the way. He brought Judy over to his grandmother, and switching back to French, said, “It is wonderful to see you again. You look beautiful.” Then he kissed her on both cheeks, and turned to Judy. “Grandmother, may I present my friend, Miss Dean.”

“I take it this is more than a social call, Thomas? Since you are doing me the honour of introducing me to Miss Dean?”

The old lady waved them both to sit down; Judy perched on the edge of the couch. It was, she thought, authentic Louis Qua torze, and might be worth more than her entire apartment.

“Then we will move on to sherry. It’s gone eleven.” The old lady nodded to her butler, who disappeared. “And so, Tom, you have something to say to me?”

“It was Judy’s idea, Grandmother,” Tom said, warmly, “and I think it will solve our present dilemma . . .”

Judy sat, her eyes downcast, as the boy explained the plan; she had to admit, he was quick; there was no fumbling, no unnecessary language. He laid it out in simple strokes, faster than she had, and then waited.

She dared to raise her eyes. The old woman was lost in thought. The butler reappeared, offering them all small crystal glasses of sherry; Judy accepted; it seemed the thing to do, and she could always count on a little alcohol to mask her nerves.

She usually despised sherry, but this was, in fact, delicious. It did not surprise Judy that Pierre’s mother would have the best.

Both her guests felt their heart rate reduce; Judy congratulated herself with another sip of the clear golden nectar.

Judy was slightly annoyed that neither servant nor mistress called her “mademoiselle,” but she would overlook it. Katherine Massot’s 10 percent was key to her revenge, at least, to half of it. She looked slyly under her lashes at the boy, as beautiful as Pierre, but in the prime of his vigour.

“Tom,” his grandmother said. “Why don’t you go for a walk in the rose garden? Miss Dean and I are going to get a little better acquainted.”

Tom looked at Judy; she shrugged, minutely; Katherine Massot was not a woman to be gainsaid.

He smiled encouragingly at Judy, and left the parlour by the side door. The old lady turned to Faubert.

Judy squared her shoulders; the old woman sat there, like a spider, controlling; she tried to meet that watery gaze.

“Your plan is an ingenious one, my dear,” Katherine said. “It will provide my grandson with a great deal of money. And control.”

Katherine sighed delicately. “Ah yes, his father. You were his father’s mistress, of course.”

“You heard what I said, Madame.” Katherine’s eyes hardened. “Pray do not play games with me. I knew Pierre. I knew where he went, and with whom he spent his time. Sophie may have ignored his lovers; I, however, did not.”

“Excuse me, Madame,” Judy said, gathering her strength. “But I am aware of that.”

Judy felt the old, stabbing pain in her heart echo. “She did not deserve him,” she said flatly.

Katherine cackled. “Ah, there, we can agree. So many women, some of them at least interesting . . . for him to choose that pudding of a girl . . .”

Katherine moved her hand; her silk gown rustled. “No need. She never did anything wrong. And she provided him with an heir. And yet, I believe,” she added thoughtfully, “that if he should return, he might. He might divorce her. Now. For what she has done with his company, admitting the suits of other men.”

Katherine sighed. “I have a connection with Pierre, a connection with him no other woman will ever have.” Her eyes flared. “None of you has known him as I have. If he were dead, I should know it.”

“You have never taken another lover,” Katherine said. “But now you wish to commence some affair with Thomas. Yes?”

“You may as well tell the truth. I shall find out sooner, rather than later, I assure you.”

“But he has none of his spirit,” Katherine said. “His disposition he has inherited from his mother, almost entirely. Except perhaps for a little stubbornness, and even that may be hers, too, if recent events are anything to go by.”

“Oh, I think I do,” Katherine said. “I think I do. Tom will be very rich. And of course, he is Sophie’s boy, as well as Pierre’s.”

“You realize that once you begin with Tom, it will be finally over between you and Pierre?”

Judy stared. Over between her and Pierre? The man was dead. It had been over for almost a decade.

“Then I will not stand in your way. But if you want some advice, move swiftly. Sophie will be trying to reconnect with Thomas, as soon as she can.”

The parlour door opened again and Tom walked through it; silhouetted against the warm noonday sun and azure sky, he was so like Pierre that Judy’s breath caught in her throat.

“Oh, very well,” Katherine said sweetly. “Judy and I are going to be great friends.”

Katherine shook her powdered head. “I am tired, chéri; it’s time for my nap. And anyway, I think you should be calling . . . M. Stockton, is it?”

Judy stood as Tom kissed his grandmother on the cheek; she shook hands with the woman, clasping her bony fingers in her own vigorous ones, and then the butler was bowing them out, and they emerged from the elegant gloom of the dower house into the blazing sunshine of August, with the hired limo purring impatiently on the gravel semicircle of her drive.

“She’s right, you know,” Judy told him. “Let’s head back to the city, you call Pete. Once that’s done we’ll know if they’ll go for it. Then we can get some lunch.”